


Unstable Construction

by Riona



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-14 01:45:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15377940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riona/pseuds/Riona
Summary: Connor doesn't know what's real. Hank tries to help him figure it out. Things get awkward.





	Unstable Construction

“Something wrong?” Hank asks, eventually. He’s been trying to ignore it, and doing a pretty good job, but Connor’s been sitting silently at his desk for a couple of hours now, his LED whirring yellow. If there’s something wrong with him, probably better to deal with it now than when they’re called into the field.

Connor looks at him. It takes him a few seconds to speak, which is definitely weird. What causes that kind of slowdown in an android?

“Lieutenant Anderson?” he asks.

“Yeah, it’s me. You can’t tell?”

“You’re alive?”

Okay, what the hell?

“Any reason that’s a surprise?” Hank asks.

Connor closes his eyes for a moment. Opens them again. “There’s an error in my preconstructive function.”

“Oh, of course,” Hank says. “That explains everything. You can stop there.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, Lieutenant, but I think you may require more information in order to fully appreciate the situation.”

“You’re kidding.”

“My preconstructive function suggests the likeliest outcomes of certain courses of action,” Connor says. He’s staring very hard at the surface of his desk. “It’s a constant background process to aid in decision-making.”

“It makes predictions,” Hank says. “Just say that. And, what, it’s broken? Does that mean you can’t make decisions at all, or it’s just harder to figure out what to do?”

“The preconstructive process itself is still running,” Connor says. “I’ve lost the ability to distinguish between the input it creates and the input I receive from my external sensors.”

“Meaning?”

“I don’t know what’s a predicted situation and what’s reality.” Connor looks up at him. “I don’t know what’s real, Hank.”

_Hank?_ Something is definitely wrong.

-

Hank takes Connor to his house. It feels like dealing with this at the station would lead to other people finding out about Connor’s condition, and they’d probably suggest the most straightforward solution: the robot’s malfunctioning, request a new robot.

They’re probably right. Hank doesn’t want to hear it. He still hasn’t totally pinned down how he feels about having an android partner, but he knows how he feels about having a partner who occasionally just fucking dies in front of him and comes back the next day, and it’s not good. If he can avoid a replacement, he’s going to.

Connor has his eyes shut the entire time. “There’s less to process if I don’t have any visual input,” he explains, when Hank asks him about it.

It’s pretty weird, guiding Connor around when he can’t see and is just quietly going along with it.

“Guess this means you trust me, huh?” Hank asks as they cross the threshold, Sumo snuffling around their ankles.

“We’ve reached your home in most of the scenarios I’m currently experiencing,” Connor says. “I have dismissed the scenarios in which you push me into the lake, as I appear to still be functioning.”

“You thought I might _push you into a lake_?”

“The probability was relatively small.”

“Relative to _what_?”

“Somewhat smaller than the probability that you would see me safely to your home,” Connor says. “Considerably smaller than the probability that Detective Reed would push me into the lake.”

Hank eases Connor down onto the couch. “You considered asking _Gavin_ for help? What the hell does he do if he _doesn’t_ push you into the lake?”

“He passes me into your care,” Connor says. “So I can be fairly certain I’m in your company now, assuming the true reality is not one of the ones in which you’ve died.”

Huh. “There a lot of those?”

“Several,” Connor says. “They are... unpleasant. I very much hope you’re still alive.”

“Yeah, makes one of us,” Hank mutters.

Connor cocks his head slightly. “I don’t believe that’s a phrase my preconstructive software would have generated. Keep speaking, please.”

Is Hank’s voice _soothing_ someone? That would be a first. “Does it help?”

“My preconstructive software cannot flawlessly emulate your manner of speaking. It’s easier for me to recognise a particular scenario as real if your speech seems authentic, or if you say things I wouldn’t be capable of envisioning you saying.”

Honestly, he started tuning Connor out about halfway through that, but he gets the gist. “How does this work? Do you think you’re having a whole bunch of different conversations at the same time right now?”

“Conversations, fights, other interactions,” Connor says. “I’ve ceased to engage with scenarios I have concluded are implausible, but there are many still to be ruled out.”

What happens if Connor concludes that _this_ scenario is implausible? Does he just stop responding, spend all his time conversing with imaginary Hanks? It’s not a great thought. Suddenly, Hank’s task of sounding like himself seems strangely daunting.

Wait. “Hold on a moment.”

“Please don’t leave me alone for long, Lieutenant.”

Well, doesn’t that make him feel like a piece of shit? “I’m not leaving. Just... hold on.”

He walks around the couch, where Connor’s still sitting stiff as a board with his eyes closed. Scoops Sumo up in his arms. It’s a hell of a task – Sumo hasn’t been a transportable size in a _very_ long time – but he just about manages it, and at least the dog seems ecstatic.

Hank dumps Sumo onto Connor’s lap.

Connor opens his eyes momentarily, looking startled, and immediately snaps them shut again. But he moves his hand to touch Sumo’s fur. “What are you doing?”

“That the kind of thing your prediction software comes up with? Lieutenant Anderson drops a dog on you for no reason?”

Connor’s LED whirls for a few seconds. Still yellow; it’s been yellow this entire time.

“I believe you to be the authentic Lieutenant Hank Anderson,” he says at last.

There’s some good news. “I bet you say that to all the Hanks.”

“I do not. I would like you to answer some urgent questions about the situation, so I have a better grasp of this reality.”

Hank leans back against the arm of the couch. Rests his hand on Sumo’s back, while he’s within reach. “Shoot.”

“Are you dying?”

He considers that. “Not any faster than usual, I guess.”

“Are you injured?”

“No.”

“Are you dead?”

Hank gives him a flat look he won’t be able to see. “Yes.”

“Lieutenant, please take this seriously.”

“What kind of order are these questions in, anyway?”

“I’ve arranged them in descending order of urgency.”

“Being dead is less urgent than being injured?”

“If you’re injured, I can take action to help,” Connor says.

He guesses that makes sense. “Got it. Any other questions?”

“To your knowledge, am I a deviant?”

He thinks he might be a deviant? That’s probably not easy to deal with. “Pretty sure you’re not.”

“Hmm,” Connor says. “In that case, I should have asked that question before the ones about your health. I’ll recalibrate.” He pauses. Opens his eyes, which seems like a good sign. His LED has steadied to blue. “What is our relationship status?”

“Our...?”

“How would you describe our relationship?” Connor asks. “Hostile? Tense?”

He wasn’t really expecting to be put on the spot like this. How’s he supposed to express his relationship with anyone at short notice? He knows who he doesn’t like, but anything beyond ‘mutual loathing’ is harder to pin down. “Not really. Not most of the time. We’re fine.”

“Would you consider us to be lovers?”

“Excuse me?”

“Would you consider us to be lovers?”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“Lovers, Lieutenant Anderson,” Connor says. “Would you say we have a romantic and/or sexual relationship?” He actually says ‘and-or’.

Hank stares at him.

“I would not say that,” Hank manages to say eventually.

Connor nods. “Is our current police assignment—”

“Wait,” Hank interrupts him. His brain is telling him not to look any further down this particular rabbit hole, but as far as his mouth is concerned his brain can get fucked, apparently. “You don’t get to drop a bombshell like that and just _move on_.”

Connor frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“You modelled us being _lovers_?” What does that mean? How detailed are these ‘preconstructions’? Pretty detailed, he’d guess, if Connor couldn’t tell the difference between them and reality.

“I modelled a great number of potential scenarios,” Connor says. “In some of those scenarios, our relationship moved by physical or emotional measures beyond the range of platonic relationships I’m programmed to recognise.”

_By physical or emotional measures_. Christ. “Wouldn’t that make you a deviant? I mean, I’m pretty sure they’re not programming some super detective-bot to go around falling in – falling in love.”

Like anyone could fall in love with Hank, anyway. What the hell is he saying?

“It depends on the situation,” Connor says. “In some preconstructed scenarios, apparent ‘feeling’ arose as a result of deviancy. I’d already dismissed them, as you said I wasn’t a deviant. In other scenarios we became lovers for practical reasons.”

“I gave you a _practical_ dicking?” He regrets the words before they’re even fully out of his mouth.

“I’m programmed to achieve my mission,” Connor says. “Having a constructive relationship with my police partner aids in that goal. If you express romantic interest in me and I reject you, our working relationship is likely to become tense. Therefore, the practical course of action is to reciprocate.”

Hank stares at him in mounting horror. “Without feeling anything.”

“Machines do not feel. I would of course make the effort to emulate the appropriate emotions.”

“You’d just lie there and let me fuck you for your _job_?”

“You really don’t need to worry about me, Lieutenant,” Connor says. “These events have already taken place, from my perspective; due to the error, the preconstructions are stored as memories of real events. But I’ve experienced no trauma from these particular scenarios.”

“Fuck,” Hank says. “No. This – this is _fucked up_ , Connor.”

Connor frowns. “I knew this would bother you if it came to light when we were lovers,” he says. “If we’ve never been lovers in reality, I’m not sure what the issue is.”

Hank presses his hand over his face for a moment, screws his eyes shut, trying to suppress the urge to yell at him. Wouldn’t do any good.

A weird thought occurs to him. Not that there’s much room for non-weird thoughts in this conversation. He drops his hand and wrestles for a moment with the question of whether he really wants to know. “Have you done this thing with Gavin?”

“This thing?”

“You know. The lovers thing.” It’s like the lake thing, right? He’s just been playing out these weird scenarios in his head with everyone he knows.

“The probability of Detective Reed and I becoming lovers was not sufficient to activate my preconstructive functions,” Connor says.

And it was with Hank. Great. Awesome. This is a fucking fantastic conversation.

-

Hank’s a lot better at drinking himself into unconsciousness than at actually sleeping, and tonight it’s _particularly_ hard to sleep. Connor’s in the next room. Probably not sleeping; Hank’s pretty sure sleep isn’t something he does. With memories of some weird, loveless relationship with Hank he just _put up with_ for the sake of the job.

Connor thought that was _plausible_? That Hank would want...

Fuck.

He doesn’t. He doesn’t. It’s a fucking android. It’s _Connor_.

Even if he did want something like that, what the hell would he do about it? He wouldn’t be able to ask Connor whether he’s interested; Connor would just say yes, because that’s what his fucking _programming_ tells him to do, and Hank would have trapped him in some sick parody of a relationship.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking matter. He’s not thinking about this.

He’s not thinking about this.

He can’t.


End file.
